


Feileadh Beag

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Emotional, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, John is Scottish, John's Childhood, John's family, Kilt Sex, M/M, Murder Mystery, POV Sherlock Holmes, Roleplay, Scotland, Sexual Roleplay, Sherlock Loves John, Switching, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Virgin play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock head to Scotland to visit John's relatives, and there may or may not be kilt sex coming. Okay, yeah, there is definitely kilt sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Feileadh Beag is Scottish Gaelic for kilt.

The parcel arrived on a Wednesday night. John was out for a rare pint with Stamford, and Sherlock was bored stiff without him. He'd already gone through the fridge and thrown out the body parts that had gone off, rearranged their dresser both by colour and season (thus Sherlock's magenta lambswool socks were now nestled tidily next to John's plum coloured jumper with the leather elbow patches, and John's bright lemon chambray button down was shouldered beside Sherlock's favourite pale yellow pyjama shirt), and gotten into several lively arguments with commenters on John's blog. Those would probably earn him John's sternest furrowed brow and an exasperated _Oh Sherlock, Jesus Christ, must you?_ later.

Now he was upside down on the couch, his long feet resting against the evidence wall, dressing gown floating round his ears, thinking to test how long one could stand on one's head without passing out. 

"Yoo hoo!" A large brown paper wrapped package preceded Mrs Hudson through the door. 

"What on earth is that?" His voice sounded funny upside down, like he had cotton stuffed in his ears.

"Well, how should I know, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson set it down in John's chair and turned to Sherlock with her arms crossed over her chest. "It's for John. Postmark from Dumbarton. Who does John know in Scotland?"

Sherlock swiveled upright too quickly, and wobbled to the side as all the blood rushed from his head. "I don't know. He's never mentioned anyone in Scotland."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, a bemused ruby red smile spreading across her face. "He's your husband for goodness sake, Sherlock. I swear I don't know what on earth you two talk about."

"Murder, generally. Or sex. We talk about sex quite a lot." Sherlock grinned at Mrs Hudson's predictably scandalised face. 

"Oh, Sherlock! Really! At my age. Bad enough I have to walk in half a dozen times a week to find you two pawing at each other in my foyer..." She swatted at him as she went past, eyes sparkling with amusement even as she tried to look indignantly stern. 

"Our foyer, too!" He called after her as she twittered down the steps, leaving a swath of gardenia perfume in her wake. 

Sherlock slunk across the sitting room, observing the parcel from a distance as though it were something that could possibly explode viscous acidic gel on him at any moment. Why did John get a package from Scotland? Who did he know there? The package was a meter long, half a meter wide, and flattish. It was wrapped in simple brown paper, the handwriting on it a very tidy print, written in black permanent marker.  

 _To: John Hamish Watson221B Baker Street London NW1 6XE England_  
_From:Aileen Elizabeth Watson28 Glasgow RoadDumbarton, Glasgow G82 1RB Scotland_

Aileen Watson. A relative. John's relative, and therefore Sherlock's relative. He frowned, brow knitting together, and templed his hands under his nose. Had she been at the wedding? No, certainly not. A relative close enough that she knew where they lived and sent John packages, but not close enough that John had ever even mentioned her existence. 

He very much wanted to open it. He was, in fact, directly on the verge of opening it, John's ridiculous sonic screwdriver letter opener poised at the junction of tape and brown paper, when John's startlingly angry voice sounded in his head. _Sherlock, for fuck's sake. You can't go round opening my parcels just because we're married. It's not for you. Even married people are allowed a bit of privacy. Put the goddamn letter opener down._

Sherlock reluctantly set the blue and silver plastic handled monstrosity down next to John's laptop and lowered himself into his chair. He stared at the package as if he could discern what was inside just by looking at it hard enough. He curled his knees up and set his chin on top of them, and wondered how on earth he could have known John for over a decade now, and have never known that he had relatives in Scotland. What else did he not know about John? 

Sherlock wanted to know everything about John, and usually believed that he actually did. He knew that the scar on John's left knee was from a shard of glass on a rugby pitch when John was thirteen. He knew that John liked very much to be woken at six in the morning to have sex, but would clap Sherlock soundly round the ears for trying the same in the middle of the night.  He knew John preferred sugar over honey in his tea. He knew that John's absolute favourite book was _The Lord of the Flies_ , but that his favourite author was actually Tolkien. He knew the exact shade of blue John's eyes turned when he was about to cry, and that it was four shades darker than when he was laughing. He knew that John had a journal pressed between the mattress and the box spring that Sherlock wasn't supposed to know was there. He knew the taste of John's mouth after his first cup of coffee, and of the back of his neck after a shower. He knew that John loved him in measures and depths that neither of them could begin to understand, and Sherlock saw it every time their eyes met.

He _didn't_ know Aileen Elizabeth Watson, however, and it was plaguing him.

When John walked in - slightly off balance and red in the face - a few hours later, Sherlock was still curled in his chair, contemplating. He had moved enough to fix himself a cup of tea, which was now steaming on the floor beside him.

''H'lo, love. Thinking?" John had clearly had more than a few pints. He flopped heavily on the sofa and tried to toe off his boots, lower lip jutting out in frustration when he couldn't manage it. It was devastatingly adorable. 

"How is Mike?" Sherlock unwound himself and crossed the sitting room to sit next to John, tucking his face in John's chilly neck. He smelled like beer and cigarettes and that faint exhaust smell that lingered in tube stops. "Here. Give me your boots."

Sherlock patted his thigh, and John threw both legs up over Sherlock's knees. 

"Not very well, actually. Getting divorced. Nasty business. Let's not ever do that, m'kay?" John touched Sherlock's left hand, which was currently engaged untying John's right boot, and smiled, a touch of sadness marring his bright blue eyes. 

"Not even a chance. I'm sorry for Mike though. There." John's second boot fell to the floor with a thump, and Sherlock absently rubbed the arch of John's socked foot with his thumb.

"So am I. It was a rough conversation. Might take him out tomorrow night again, if it's alright with you." 

"Yes, of course." Sherlock pressed his lips to John's temple, then the helix of his ear, then the lobe. He slid his palm inside the cuff of John's jeans and over his calf, kneading lightly. "I miss you though. When you're out."

John leaned back into the sofa and squirmed, a tremulous little hum in the back of his throat. His eyes fell shut and he sighed. "Too tired, baby. I'm knackered. Right to sleep I go."

"You are not. Don't fall asleep, John."

"Mmmm. Okay." John's eyes were closed, his arms resting crossed on the top of his head. He looked right on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Who's Aileen Watson?" Sherlock rumbled, lips against John's ear.

John's eyes struggled open, and he blinked several times. "What? How do you...?"

"Parcel came. From Aileen Watson to you. Who is she?" Sherlock sat back, eyebrow raised questioningly.

John scratched at his hair and sighed, breathing out through his nose with his lips pressed together. He swung his legs off Sherlock's lap and sat up. "She's, uh, my great aunt. Dad's aunt."

Sherlock knew John's relationship with his father had been fraught with tension, before John had cut him off. A childhood of incessant judgment and harsh discipline, often meted out with a belt or an unforgiving hand, made for an adversarial adult relationship. After John's mother had passed away, John and Harry had become completely estranged from him. Sherlock had only met him once, at a wedding for a distant cousin whom John had a particular affection for. He hadn't expected his father to be there. When he'd spotted him striding towards them, John had reached automatically for Sherlock's hand and gripped it tight. Anchoring himself. 

Hamish Watson was a taller man than his son, but not quite Sherlock's height. Wiry muscles, square jaw, sun damaged brown skin, harsh and careworn. They shared the same indigo eyes, but his had none of the mirth and mischievous sparkle found in John's. Everything about him was hard edges. He looked like the man John could have become, had his life taken a different turn.  

Their conversation had been brief and horrible. John's lip had curled defiantly as he had introduced Sherlock as his boyfriend, which he still was, then. John's father's nose had flared in blatant disgust and he'd refused to shake Sherlock's hand, muttering something about _poofs_ and _two in one family_ under his breath. Sherlock's jaw had locked tight, a string of vitriolic insults ready behind his clenched teeth. John had yanked him away and gotten them both a double scotch neat. _He's not worth it, love. He's really not._ They had left the wedding before the cake was cut.

Now John was staring out the window, looking contemplative. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling as though he'd really put his foot in it, which was ridiculous, because of course he hadn't sent the parcel. It was an unspoken understanding that they never discussed John's father, however, and now he felt as though he'd broken that rule by bringing any of this up. "Oh. I'm sorry, John. Is she  --- ?" 

"Like my dad? No. She's lovely, actually. My mum always liked her a lot, used to take me and Harry up for weekends. She used to live in Cairndow, near Loch Fyne. She wasn't married, lived by herself. Had this tiny little cottage, just one big great room and a loft with a ladder. Harry and Mum would sleep in this big feather bed in the loft and I'd sleep on a fifty year old army cot. Aunt Aileen would make scones for breakfast. Harry and I would go tramping about in the heather all day, getting muddy and scratched, and Aileen and Mum would bake and talk. It was quite picturesque. Dad never came."

Sherlock felt a creeping darkness over his shoulders and up the back of his neck. The black mood that John usually deemed _a strop_. "You have never said a word about any of this before."

"Oh, don't be wounded, love. You know I don't keep up with Dad's family. It's just too...I don't know. I don't want to have it out with anyone about Dad, and that seems inevitable if we socialise enough. I don't know why I didn't tell you about going up to the Highlands when I was a kid, except I just hadn't gotten round to it yet, I guess. If I could hardwire your brain to mine so you could know every single thing about me, I would. I promise.I know how it haunts you." John turned and looked at Sherlock, an amused grin twitching at the edge of his mouth. 

"So you're Scottish." Sherlock felt unreasonably put off by the thought. It was as if he was married to wholly different person. John Watson, Scotsman.  

"Well, don't sound so accusatory about it. It's just on my dad's side, like one quarter of the family. Is this a problem? You don't like Scottish people?" John was teasing him now, grinning broadly, his slightly bloodshot eyes dancing.  

"No." Sherlock said sulkily, fully aware of how foolish he must sound to John, and hating himself for it. "I like Scottish people fine. I just didn't know _you_ were one."

"Well, my middle name is _Hamish_. Didn't that give you some kind of a clue, Mr Consulting Detective?" John laughed and smacked Sherlock on the thigh playfully. "Come on now, gorgeous. As irresistible as I find you when you're sulking, I'm too damned tired and drunk for serious conversation. Had enough of that with poor Mike. Fetch me the parcel and we'll see what's in it, yeah?"

Sherlock tried to shake off the dark mood, self-aware enough to know he was being petty and John didn't deserve anger or irritation just for being private about his rubbish childhood. Sherlock picked up the box, which was surprisingly light for its size, and the ridiculous letter opener and handed them both to John. He perched on the end of the sofa, chewing on his thumbnail, and watching. 

"I have absolutely no idea what this could be." John said, seemingly to himself more than Sherlock, as he slid the blade of the letter opener under the paper and ripped. He tore the paper away and allowed it to fall crumpled to the floor as he opened the flaps of the box. "Oh."

"What? What is it?" 

"It's...hang on, there's a note." John pulled out a folded piece of yellowy note paper with a spring of Scottish heather embossed in the corner. " _Dear John, I know we haven't seen one another in quite a long time, almost twenty years, in fact, but I have very fond memories of you and your sister coming to visit when I lived in Cairndow and I think of you both often. I live in Dumbarton now - was getting a bit on in years to live so far away from hospitals and such - and you're welcome anytime. I hear from Harry that you're married now. I'd be ever so happy to have both of you come and visit. Anyway, my brother Ewan passed last month, which makes you one of only two Watson men left. You and your father. I've sent your dad a few things, too, but somehow I felt this should be yours. It's in the Watson tartan. I don't think Ewan ever wore it, so you might be the first to do so. Enjoy it. Please consider bringing Sherlock up to visit, I'd love to meet him and to see you. Love, Aunt Aileen_ "

John fell silent, his mouth twisting in the way it did when he was dealing with a harsh emotion, or several, and he didn't want to cry. Sherlock shuffled forward on the sofa and dropped an arm behind his shoulders, kissed his hair. John tipped his head against Sherlock's and breathed in deeply. Sherlock looked into the box. 

Inside was a neatly laid out woolen kilt. The tartan was primarily blue and black, crossed with thick bands of translucent green and shot through with thin golden yellow stripes in rows of three. There was a double buckle at the hip, leather and brass, and a thick brown leather belt at the waist. It reminded Sherlock of something ancient and primal, even though it was probably a mass made thing from a shop in Edinburgh. The smell of it alone was intoxicating - a heady mix of wool and buttery leather, mingled with something spicier, almost like clove or allspice. 

"I'll never wear it." John reached in and rubbed a soft leather strap between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Why not? It's beautiful." Sherlock put his hand beside John's and stroked down the front of the wool, which was surprisingly soft and not scratchy as Sherlock had anticipated. "I think you'd look devastatingly handsome."

"You think so? Huh. I don't know, I think I'd feel bloody foolish." John abruptly closed the box and set it on the floor. "It was a hell of a lovely thought though. We _should_ go and visit Aunt Aileen. I think I'd like that."

"I think I would too. Tramp around in the heather with you. My rugged Scotsman." Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder, trying to be comforting. 

John threw his head back and laughed heartily. "More like your pale urban Londoner who can't go an afternoon without wifi and takeaway coffees. And there's not much heather in Dumbarton, Sherlock. Though we could take a trip to Cairndow, too. I could show you the cottage if it's still there." John leaned in with sleepy eyes and a gentle smile, trailing a finger slowly down the side of Sherlock's neck. "We'll talk about it tomorrow when I'm not pissed, how about that? Come to bed."

"I thought you were too tired. Going straight to sleep." Warmth shivered through him, originating where John's fingers were now tracing his collarbone, and spreading down his back. His scalp tingled pleasantly.

"Mmm. Changed my mind." John leaned forward and nosed at the hollow where collarbone met neck, drifted his lips back and forth. "Come on, husband. I want to ravish you. I _am_ ruggedly Scottish, after all. We can't help it. It's in the blood." 

"Oh shut up." Sherlock grinned, and took John's warm hands, pulling them both down the short hallway and into bed.

It was only later, as John was breathing evenly beside him, that Sherlock found himself ruminating on how little he really knew of John's childhood. John knew virtually everything about Sherlock's. The failed public schools, the bullying, Redbeard. That the Holmeses moved out of London because of their troubled younger son, to try and give him the breathing space to thrive. John would rub Sherlock's back as he spoke, play with his curls, tell him how perfect he was to John, and how no one else's opinion mattered. Then silence. John rarely reciprocated by telling a childhood tale of his own.

Sherlock knew some things. He about rugby, and the girls John had taken to dances. He knew about the first time John had kissed a boy. Phillip Rydinger, in sixth form. Sherlock knew some things, certainly, but not nearly enough.  

Yes. A long holiday to Scotland was just what they needed.

***

"I want to go to Cairndow first. I've never been to the Highlands." Sherlock murmured against John's tee shirted shoulder. The alarm clock read 7:04am. John had nearly bashed it to bits when it went off at 7:00, furious at himself for having forgotten to change it for the weekend. 

"Hmmm." John grumbled, shifting backwards and hooking his left ankle over the top of Sherlock's. 

John was so warm. So inviting. It was nearly impossible for Sherlock not to touch him on these soft grey mornings, weak sunlight slanting across the end of the bedclothes, the world outside this room so cold and exhausting. John, right here, all overheated skin and cold nose, rumpled tee shirt rucked up to show a patch of pale belly and a line of wispy brown curls trailing into his pyjama bottoms. He smelled like ripe peaches and black coffee.

Sherlock nuzzled into the nape of John's neck, mouthed at his hairline. "I want to see sheep. Let's rent a cottage out in the middle of nowhere."

"Mkay." John tipped his head to the side, exposing more of that thick muscular neck to Sherlock's exploring mouth. He reached one arm under the blankets and rubbed at Sherlock's bare thigh. "No pants. You slag."

"We'll take - _oh_ \- long walks through the heather and pet sheep." Sherlock took the lobe of John's left ear between his teeth and tugged gently, flattened his hand against John's stomach and rolled his hips into the gentle swell of John's arse. He shuddered against the drag of his rapidly hardening cock against the thin cotton of John's pyjamas.

John's breath quickened, his fingertips digging sweetly into Sherlock's thigh. "I'll make you eat haggis in some - _ohh_ \- countryside pub. Oh, love. That feels so good."

Sherlock teased his hand under the elastic waistband and traced his fingertips through soft hair until he found velvet skin, blood hot and half hard. He trailed two fingers down John's length, then over the inside of his thigh, the slightly damp crease of his groin. John moaned low in his chest, the vibration rumbling through his sternum and into Sherlock's palm.

They moved unhurriedly, not possessed this morning by the frantic hunger that sometimes still overtook them. John tilted his head back and kissed at the side of Sherlock’s jaw as Sherlock slipped John’s pyjama bottoms off with lingering touches over his hips and belly. John kicked them off once they were at his feet and wriggled his now half nude body against Sherlock with a quiet hum. Sherlock canted his hips gently, listening to their syncopated breathing, spreading his long fingers over John’s hipbone and easing him back. 

"Tee shirt." Sherlock tugged at the hem, rubbing John's stomach with his thumb.

John took the hint, wrestled it up over his head without dislodging himself from Sherlock's arms, and tossed it to the floor. "There. All yours, love."

"All mine." Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes against John's bare shoulder. 

Worshipful fingers danced over every bump of rib, every knot of scar tissue on John’s torso. He brushed his fingertips over John’s nipples, eliciting from John a deep shuddering inhalation. He pinched and rolled the hardening flesh between his fingers, and John shifted his hips in response, covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. They caressed John’s chest together, fingers entwined. Sherlock pressed his lips to the gunshot scar, brushed them across John’s back to the freckle in the center of his spine. John arched and sighed, his back muscles rippling and tensing under Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Shall we rent a car?” Sherlock nibbled at John’s left shoulder blade, rubbed his nose in a circle against the unblemished skin around the white raised scarring.

John huffed and clutched at Sherlock’s hip, pushed his arse back into Sherlock’s now fully erect prick. “Christ, are you still thinking about travel plans?”

Sherlock bit back a groan, the heady buzz of arousal sweeping through him hot and thick. He could stay like this forever; the sweet warmth of their bodies moving against each other under the blankets, John’s fingers tight against his thigh, John's chest heaving sweaty in Sherlock's arms. The dense heady smell of their combined arousal drifted over him and even laying down, the tendons in his knees went loose and weak. How there was ever a time he'd survived without this, Sherlock had no idea.

He bit at the bony curve where shoulder met upper arm, wrapped his left arm fully around John’s waist and pulled him close. “I won’t mind driving. That way, we can - _oh god_ \- stop for sightseeing along the - _oh John_ \- way.”

John had somehow insinuated his hand between them, though the angle was awkward, and was gently stroking the head of Sherlock’s cock with three fingers. Sherlock whimpered breathlessly, goosebumps shivering electric across his skin, and he shifted down until his cock was pressing between John’s warm thighs. John naturally lifted his hip, his foot flat against the bed, and parted his legs so Sherlock could shift and roll, push forward into the soft skin of John’s bollocks.

“Oh, John. I love you so much." Sherlock curled over John’s back, tall enough to hook his chin over John’s shoulder and kiss him, sweeping his tongue along John’s lower lip. His hand skidded down the planes and swells of John’s lower belly, found his stiff and leaking prick and took him in hand. He thumbed rhythmically at the slit, soft skin giving just a little as he pressed enough to make John tremble. 

John gasped brokenly, licked hot and wet at Sherlock’s mouth as he rocked into Sherlock’s fist. “I know, love, I know. Oh, you feel so good. God, your _hands_.”

“I want you on top of me.” Sherlock whispered roughly, not even knowing where the desire for that came from, but suddenly needing John’s weight and warmth heavy on him. He wanted to look into those stormy blue eyes as he thrust up into the tightness of John’s body, wanted to be surrounded by him, wanted John’s hands pressing into his chest. Wanted to be lost in him.

"Yeah, alright." John's voice was barely more than breath. 

They rolled as one, Sherlock ending up flat on his back with John hot and perfect between his damp thighs. The blankets came with them, twisting and trapping their legs, bunching under Sherlock's hip. John pulled at them, trying to sort them out without separating himself from Sherlock. Sherlock fumbled at them too, and only ended up tightening them around their calves until they could barely move. 

John laughed loudly and rolled to the side, yanked the blankets unceremoniously from under Sherlock's arse. "Sorry, love. I'm not the most graceful, am I? "

Sherlock kicked at the now freed blankets until they crumpled to the floor at the end of the bed. God, he just wanted _John_. So many blankets and sheets in the way was intolerable. "I was hot anyway."

John rolled back between Sherlock's legs, running his palms over Sherlock's stomach and chest. "You certainly are," he murmured warmly, nipping at Sherlock's collarbone.

"John, good grief, that was awful. You sound like one of those romance novels Mrs Hudson reads." Sherlock skimmed his hands down John's warm and flushed back, pulled him close enough to take John's lower lip gently in his teeth.

John smiled against Sherlock's mouth, "How do you know what's in those? You read them, don't you?"

"I most certainly don't. I'm guessing." Sherlock flattened a hand on each of John's thighs and pulled, urging him to spread his knees on either side of Sherlock's hips. The solid weight of John settled across his thighs and stomach, so much heavier than he looked. The hard length of him nudged against Sherlock's navel and they both sucked in a breath, mouths so close they breathed in each other's air.   

"You never _guess_." John raised his head and smirked, his blue eyes twinkling affectionately, surrounded by laugh lines etched deep in his desire-blushed skin. His perfect pink lips twitched to the side in a crooked grin, and Sherlock was so seized by tenderness, by absolutely blinding love and fondness, his lungs felt too small to take in oxygen. 

"John." John's name, always so laden with meaning, with what they were and are to each other, was the only endearment Sherlock ever used. John called Sherlock _baby_ , and _sweetheart_ , _love_ and _darling_ , and each one of them shot right to Sherlock's heart like a hit of sweet cocaine. He could be high off one _Oh, sweetheart_ , for hours. He loved hearing those pet names falling from John's lips so easily, tangible evidence of his love. He never had a use for them with John, though. John's name was enough. It said everything he needed to say.

John's head tilted to the side. John's perfect silver blonde head that held all of John inside it, all of his secrets and memories, all his funny quirks, his bravery and intelligence, the ability to save people's lives with just his delicate small hands. Sherlock reached up and wrapped his own enormous hands around the sides of John's head and pulled him down to kiss him with as much feeling as he could express with just the slide of his mouth against John's.

John hummed and moaned, reached out and fumbled in the bedside drawer without breaking the kiss. Sherlock heard the little snick of a cap being opened as John arched up, his thighs pressing tight against Sherlock's hips. John shifted to the side and down, his shoulder pressing into Sherlock's, his other arm slipped between them, and _oh_.

John whimpered a little, and Sherlock felt the shiver that trembled through him as he worked slicked fingers inside himself. Their pricks slid against each other, and John gasped hard, finally pulling his mouth away from Sherlock's and burying his forehead in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. His forearm flexed against Sherlock's stomach as he moved his fingers inside his own body. 

"I want to see." Sherlock nudged at John's shoulders, and John complied, letting Sherlock push him up until he was kneeling, straddling Sherlock's stomach. 

He braced himself with his left hand against the headboard, his right hand between his legs, flushed prick standing up blood red and hard against his belly, his bollocks resting heavy and full against his arm. His eyes were closed, long blonde lashes fluttering against his cheeks, lips dark pink and slightly parted. He pressed his fingers in deeper, curling forward and exhaling slowly as his stomach muscles jumped and tensed. 

"God, John." Sherlock put his hands on every part of John's body he could, over his trembling belly, his shaking thighs, his neck, taut and straining. Finally he closed his hand around John's cock and stroked him gently as John rocked and pushed up into his touch.

"Sherlock, fuck, oh god, baby." John's hips rolled back and forth beautifully, pale skin stretched tight over smooth bone, as he worked himself open.

Sherlock had a sudden image of them like this, but John wearing that gorgeous kilt, fabric ruched around his arm as he crooked his fingers against his prostate. He could almost feel the soft wool against his stomach, smell the leather straps. His hips jumped involuntarily at the thought and he clutched at John's thigh with the hand that wasn't stroking him, rutting up between his legs.

"Impatient." John breathed out, ragged and desperate.

"Sorry, I couldn't -" Sherlock was cut short by John's fingers wrapping around the base of his cock and guiding him slowly inside the tight heat of John's passage. The rush of sensation coursed through him like a tide, and he clawed at John's waist, looking for an anchor.

"I've got you," John's hands, sweaty and slick, closed over Sherlock's left hand above his head. He twisted their fingers together and pressed back against the resistance of Sherlock's tensed arm as he began a gentle rhythm. "I've got you, love."  

John shut his eyes and breathed deep, and Sherlock could feel it. He could feel everything - John's shivering skin, his heart thumping wildly, the low guttural groan that rumbled through him as his pace picked up, thighs sliding damp against the sides of Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock's hand on his prick stuttered and slowed, lost for the moment in the pleasure of John surrounding him, the beautiful friction as the head of his cock rubbed against the  nub of John's prostate.

"Oh, _please_ don't stop." John husked out, voice shaking.

Sherlock resumed stroking him slow, more just letting John thrust into his grip as he rode Sherlock. He thumbed at the slit, spreading precome in a slippery circle, pressed the pad of his thumb against the frenulum. John jerked forward hard, clenching tight around Sherlock's prick. Orgasm started gathering at the base of Sherlock's spine, heat spreading between his legs and up into his lower belly. He bent his knees against the weight of John's arse, let John lean back against the tops of his thighs as he rose up and down, rocked his hips from side to side and panted shallowly. 

Sherlock lifted his hips once, experimentally, and John bucked wildly, a throaty growl tearing out of him. He released Sherlock's hands and fell forward over him, mouthing and nipping wetly at his throat, licking at his collarbone and his jaw. Sherlock pressed his feet into the mattress and thrust up firmly. John writhed against him and bit into his shoulder, gasping out desperate little whines. 

"Please, love, please." 

"Sit up." 

John sat back, the angle immediately deeper, so much more intense. White sparked fuzzy at the edges of Sherlock's vision, his stomach tightened as his back arched, drawn up like a bow string. John rode him faster, his head falling back, Adam's apple prominent in his stretched throat. Sherlock clasped John's hip with his free hand and dug his fingers in, guiding John to ride him harder.

"God, yes, Sherlock, just like that. _Christ_." John's whimpers turned into a long low groan as his cock thickened and pulsed in Sherlock's hand. He thrashed and arched backward, sweaty fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sheets and then bending forward to clutch at Sherlock's shoulders. He was right on the edge, shivering from head to toe, breathing in short little gasps. He stilled completely as he came, every muscle contracting tightly as he spilled hot into the caress of Sherlock's hand, and over it, long stripes of translucent white slipping across Sherlock's belly.

"Oh, oh  _John,_ " Sherlock rasped, as with one final deep thrust he came, shuddering and digging his fingernails into John's skin. His nerve endings were on fire, white hot flames licking through his entire body as he shook uncontrollably.

John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's chest, heedless of the mess between them, and stilled his hips. He breathed hard, looking down at Sherlock with shining eyes and a soft smile, "That's it, sweetheart. That's it. Oh god, you're beautiful."

"Hmmm." Sherlock mewled, still quaking with aftershocks, his fingers twitching against John's hips.

John bent forward and kissed Sherlock's mouth with aching tenderness, and then pressed his lips to Sherlock's brow. "Well, that was a lovely way to start the weekend."

Sherlock hummed a laugh, petted at John's thighs. 

"Shower?"

"You go. I can't move yet." Sherlock let his arms flop back on the pillow, his body leaden with endorphins. 

"Alright, love. Separate showers if we must. Though I'll miss you." John eased himself off of Sherlock and padded off to the bathroom.

***

They washed up and made breakfast together - toast and cold cereal and coffee - and Sherlock settled in his chair with his laptop on the arm. 

"We'll go next week. This case we're on now should be wrapped up by then, and we just won't take a new one until we get back."

John appeared in the kitchen doorway with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, hair still slightly damp from the shower. "What, to Scotland?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said absently, paging through Cairndow's various hotels and B&B's on the Visit Scotland website. 

"Um. Okay." John sat down in his chair and sipped his coffee. "I'll have to check with Aunt Aileen and make sure she's able to see us. That's rather short notice."

Sherlock fixed John with an incredulous stare. "She's in her eighties, John. What on earth do you think she'll be busy with? Knitting? I think she can manage to squeeze us in."

"God, you're a berk sometimes." John said fondly, shaking his head.

"Most of the time, probably, though you don't notice anymore. We'll go to Cairndow, first, anyway."

"A bossy berk."

Sherlock ignored him. "Cairndow. There, I already rented us a cottage. Right off the A83, should be easy enough to find."

"God, I haven't been there in thirty years. Not since I was a kid." John stared into the fireplace, warming his hands around his mug. "I guess I'd better start packing. "

"Pack that kilt." Sherlock could feel the heat rising on his cheeks, remembering the vision of John on top of him, the kilt brushing against his stomach. 

"Are you serious?" John fixed those indigo eyes on him, brow furrowed questioningly.

"Don't I look serious, John?"

"You look turned on, is what you look."

"Well." Sherlock shrugged and winked. 

"A bossy _kinky_ berk." John grinned.

Sherlock grinned back, looking into that face he knew so well, every line and scar memorised, having traced every bump of bone with his fingertips, kissed every curve and swell with his mouth. There was something lurking at the back of those familiar eyes, something wary. John was an intensely private person, Sherlock knew that. He was well aware that John didn't like to be pried at, though he usually made an exception for Sherlock. 

John cleared his throat and stood up. "Well. Best get some laundry going."

Sherlock watched John as he disappeared into the hallway, his shoulders tight. This holiday was going to be emotional for John. Sherlock would have to tread lightly, or John would close up like an oyster being prodded with a stick.

***

The next Saturday dawned clear and crisp, the sky a brilliant sapphire blue. With a nearly eight hour drive ahead of them, they were loading the rented Ford Galaxy just as the sun broke over the tree line in Regent's Park. John was quiet, contemplative, as he slammed the gate down and tugged at it to make sure the latch had caught. 

"All ready."

They made their way out of London, traffic getting thicker as the hour wore on. Sherlock hit the accelerator as  they merged onto the M1, turned up the radio - some Radiohead album John had chosen - and felt rather like they were going on a grand adventure. For his part, John had been mostly silent since they'd gotten in the car, just watching the city go by as they wound their way northwest on the A41.

"John, are you alright?"

John reached over quietly and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Sherlock squeezed his hand and glanced over. John's face was relaxed, his head leaned back against the headrest. "Alright. Tell me about it?"

John lifted their hands up and kissed Sherlock's knuckles gently. "Later. I'm fine, love, honestly."

Sherlock worried quietly, now feeling perhaps he'd miscalculated the effect this trip would have on John. John seemed happy, though, a soft smile on his face as he rubbed a circle against Sherlock's hand with his thumb and watched the city give way to suburbs, and then to countryside. They stopped in Coventry for coffees and donuts, and John fell back asleep before they neared Birmingham. Sherlock didn't wake him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me if my Gaelic isn't perfect. I do not speak the language, so there may be mistakes. Just take it as JOhn not speaking it perfectly, either. ; )

It turned into a foggy day, temperature dropping continuously as Sherlock wound them northwards and toward the coast. Sherlock shuffled through the music on John’s phone, finding quite a bit of cacophonous grunge from the mid 1990’s that he knew John must have downloaded very recently. Nostalgia for his teen years, perhaps. This trip had awoken quite a lot of nostalgia in John. Sherlock had found him a few days previous, sitting cross legged on the bed with a falling to pieces scrapbook spread across his lap. _Got it from Harry, I haven’t looked at this shit in twenty years. Want to see?_

The book had been filled with pictures of John as a teenager, ticket stubs from concerts, a few programs from plays, scrawled notes passed under desks, interspersed with a few pictures of Harry, red haired and surly in Doc Martens and ripped jeans. John was golden and muscular, shining white teeth and rugby jerseys. Pictures filled with other boys who looked much the same, all piled together and grinning at themselves, at the ease of their joy - a tourney win, a girl to snog in the back of a car, a few pints with the lads - their lives so careless and untroubled. 

Sherlock liked to think of John that way, raucous and mischievous, playing practical jokes on his rugby mates and slow dancing with pretty girls in a darkened gymnasium on a Friday night. It gave Sherlock a thrill of victorious possessiveness that only Sherlock was privy to knowing the inner turmoil that had been going on within John while he was playing the girl crazy athlete. That while he was wooing every girl in his form, he had in reality been pining over the captain of his rugby team since they were fourteen, and that while he pretended to hate schoolwork and studying as much as his mates did, he harboured the desire to become a doctor, and worked secretly to be at the top of the class so he could get into a good uni.

Not that Sherlock enjoyed the idea of John suffering, but there was a part of him that jealously guarded the parts of John that only Sherlock knew about. There had always been so much more to him than what he presented to the world, the dark complexity of the real John Watson sheathed inside armour made of easy smiles, flirtatious blue eyes, ruffled blonde hair. John _looked_ like a simple person, and he used that to his advantage, allowed people to believe that about him. Very damn few people ever got a glimpse of the seething, difficult man that lay beneath all that.

Sherlock, certainly. Mostly Sherlock. Though they'd certainly struggled and fought for what they had. Mrs Hudson understood John intuitively, without him having to spell anything out for her, as did Greg. Greg probably knew John the best, after Sherlock. Greg understood because he was the same kind of man, deceptively uncomplicated. He and John had recognised each other for what they were immediately, bonded over it before they even really opened up to one another. Sherlock had occasional fits of jealousy over John’s closeness with Greg, but John would always laugh it away as he wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down to twine their tongues together. _There’s only one man for me, Sherlock._

John slept on as Sherlock drove and ruminated. He occasionally shifted, mumbling incomprehensibly and turning his head from side to side, or stretching his legs out straight and frustratingly arching his back as if he were trying to lay down. 

He’s like a big lazy dog sometimes, Sherlock thought fondly, glancing over to see John rubbing at his eyes and finally sitting up with a bit of a start. 

“Christ, how long was I asleep, Sherlock? Where are we?” John rolled down the window, thrust his arm out into the cool misty air. He held his hand up, fingers spread, and allowed the wind to buffet through them.

“Mmmm, we just passed by Manchester. We’re near Blackburn. You’ve been asleep about two hours. Shall we stop and stretch a bit?”

“Sorry I was out so long, love. Why didn’t you wake me?” John yawned and dragged his hands up and down his face and through his hair, making it stand on end.

“You seemed like you needed to sleep.” Sherlock shrugged, and veered off onto the exit for Blackburn. “Let’s stop and have lunch.”

“Are you hungry?” John shot him a disbelieving look.

“No, but you are.” Sherlock turned left onto the A674 just as a steady rain began to fall. 

John quickly rolled up his window and flipped on the defroster to keep the windows from fogging up. “You’re right, I am. You’re always making sure I’m fed and watered, eh, love?  It must be like being married to a plant, me. A grouchy plant.”

Sherlock smiled indulgently as John encircled his wrist with his fingers, gave a squeeze, and then turned the radio up. “Smashing Pumpkins, really, Sherlock? You like this?”

“It’s...interesting. I have vague recollections of people trying to make me listen to this at some godawful parties when I was about fifteen.” Sherlock’s own teen years were about as opposite from John’s as it was possible to be. Lonely and awkward, spending most of his time alone or with his parents. Mycroft had been off at uni, so he didn’t even have him for companionship at the time. Invitations to parties had been rare, the reality of attending them uncomfortable and tedious. 

“But you like it now?” John’s mouth curved up, pleased and eager to share this simple moment of enjoying the same song together. 

“Yes, I do rather. It’s incredibly layered. It reminds me of orchestral music.” Sherlock didn’t actually like it as much as he was leading John to believe, but sometimes all he wanted was to give John a moment of easy pleasure and watch the ever present storm clouds clear from those beloved blue eyes.  

“I _loved_ this album. I used to listen to it every day.” John rapped his knuckles against the door, watching the moor blur past them, green and grey and endless. 

They drove in silence for a few kilometers, rain drumming a rhythm over the music, John leaning his head against the window and singing along quietly. Sherlock slipped a hand over the top of John’s thigh, fingers tapping out the melody line on the soft denim. They stayed that way, a cosy quiet descending over both of them, until Sherlock spotted a sprawling pinkish white building by the side of the road, cars parked scatteringly in its lot. 

“Oh let’s stop there! John, it’s called the Clog and Billycock. The Billy _cock_. We cannot possibly pass up this opportunity." Sherlock looked meaningfully at John, and John laughed a deep rumbling chuckle, shaking his head.

“You are about twelve years old, you know that?” He grinned at Sherlock as they pulled into a parking spot. “People think you’re this intimidating genius, and really you’re just a filthy minded adolescent who gets bored enough sometimes to blow up our microwave.”

“You do know me _so_ well, John.” Sherlock grinned and slammed the car door shut, drew John close as they huddled under a shared umbrella and splashed across the lot to the restaurant.

***

They made it to the outlying areas of Cairndow just before sunset. John had been increasingly brooding as they got closer, but as Sherlock turned off the A83 onto the A815, skirting the southern edge of the tiny village, John sat up as if on alert and took a deep breath. 

He rolled down the window, seemingly oblivious to the rain blowing cold across his face. Sherlock watched as he closed his eyes and lifted his chin, his eternally furrowed brow relaxing smooth. “Ah, god, can you smell it, Sherlock?”

“Smell what, John?” Sherlock watched him out of the sides of his eyes, some unnamed emotion spreading through him, simultaneously melancholic and joyful. 

John shook his head and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. “Just - the air, the water, the dirt - it all smells so different here. I remember this smell. I _remember_ it.”

Sherlock's eyes wandered from the road to look at John fully. He looked different already, a part of him emerging that Sherlock hadn't been privy to before now. There was a wildness about him, his nostrils flared to take in the night smells of the forest around them, his eyes wide and pale in the moonlight. Sherlock couldn't look away.

“Oh, I missed it. That was the cottage right behind us. Let me just - “ Sherlock turned the van carefully in the muddy gravel filled road edge and backtracked to a long narrow drive bordered with wildflowers and scrubby hedges.

The cottage was miniscule, traditionally whitewashed and surrounded by a rocky garden in the front. Towering pines ringed the back garden, black against the purplish twilight sky. 

John was halfway out of the car before Sherlock had even pulled the brake. He stood by the open door and stretched skyward, back bending, silhouetted against a huge orange moon. He rolled his shoulders and jumped up and down a few times, then strode purposefully toward the cottage. Sherlock hesitated, unsure of whether to grab the bags first or not, but then decided just to follow John into the house.

The gravel crunched resoundingly under his boots, nostrils filling with the sharp tang of pine needles, the musty odor of damp earth. It was an utterly foreign smell, nothing like the countryside round London which was vaguely floral and assiduously maintained by human hands. These smells were much more primal. Unspoiled.

John already had the key turning in the lock. “Under the mat, just like she said.”

“Damn, another missed opportunity to showcase my lock-picking prowess.”

“Don’t worry, darling, you can showcase your prowess in other areas very shortly.” John turned on him with dark eyes and flashed a predatory smile that sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"Something's come over you, John." Sherlock murmured, following at John's heels as they entered the darkened house. Sherlock could see a huge paneled glass door at the back, gleaming white countertops in an open kitchen, the outline of a grey stone fireplace against the opposite wall.  

John didn't respond. Instead he felt along the wall for the light switch, and not finding one, stepped into the living room and fumbled at the lamp silhouetted against the paneled door. The light came on abruptly, bathing the rooms in a soft yellow glow.

"Very modern, this, isn't it?" John planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. Smooth white walls contrasted with a black cabineted kitchen, concrete slab counters and a glass tiled floor. The fireplace was massive, taking up almost half of the wall opposite the kitchen, grey stones artfully stacked all the way to the ceiling. Leather couches and smoked glass tables crowded around the hearth, just slightly too large for the space. The floors were the only ancient thing visible - wide wooden planks worn uneven by hundreds of years of bare feet and heavy boots - and even that was refinished, sanded and stained, gleaming with layers of polyurethane.

"Do you - not like it?" This certainly wasn't what Sherlock had in mind when he booked the place, but it suited his aesthetic. John, though. Renovated spaces like this usually sent his nose wrinkling and unleashed a steady stream of mutterings of _destroying the history of the place...perfectly good the way it was...dunno why people can't leave well enough alone._

"No, love. I do. It's quite romantic, actually. No telly, I like that _very_ much." John sauntered across the room, hips rolling, and slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist. He put his mouth to his jaw, his chin, and then buried his face against Sherlock's neck, breathing deeply. "No distractions."

Sherlock pressed his hand into the small of John's back and sank towards him, towards his now exploring mouth, teeth nipping lightly at Sherlock's pulse point. "John, shouldn't we - at least get the bags?"

"Mmmm. Bags can wait. We're not in London, no one's going to nick them." John voice was half lost in the hollow between Sherlock's collarbone and his throat. Warm lips traced up over Sherlock's jaw with just enough suction to make his eyes roll back in his head as his breath hitched. 

"John -" A coil of arousal was building low in his pelvis, his thighs going hot. There seemed to be no end to this want inside him, this profound need for John, all the time. He never had enough, even after nearly three years of being together this way, the want never abated.   

John's breath ghosted hot over his ear, his small hands slipping down to knead at Sherlock's waist. He pressed a close mouthed kiss under Sherlock's ear and rubbed his nose at the lobe before pulling back. "Okay, no, you're right, love. Let's get the bags, and I'll find where the logs are stashed. We'll build a fire, have a drink. How does that sound?"

Now Sherlock could have cared less about the damned bags. He wanted John's arms around him again, heavy and solid, John's warm breath against his skin, the slight scrape of his late evening stubble. He sighed, acquiescing, knowing they'd regret it tomorrow morning if they woke up in a house with no coffee and no shampoo, no dressing gowns or clean pants. Stumbling out into the frigid Scottish morning in dirty clothes to search for coffee wasn't the ideal way to start a holiday, no matter how inviting John felt at the moment. 

"Yes, alright." Sherlock ran two fingers down the side of John's face, pressed the tip of his index finger into the deep cleft of his chin. John gazed up at him, his eyes beaming affection, with a glint to them that promised the night was far from over. "I miss your beard."

John laughed, eyes twinkling, and he rubbed at the beginnings of scruff on his jaw. "Maybe I'll grow it back for you while we're up here."

"You'll have to, because I didn't pack your razor." 

"You little shit," John said affectionately, "You know they do have razors in Scotland, darling."

"You won't buy one."

"No?"

"No. Because you know I don't want you to." 

"Think you've got me wrapped right round that gorgeous little finger of yours, don't you?" 

"Don't I?" 

John's gaze on him was pure heat. He could feel it, traveling over his chest, up his neck, lingering on his mouth. Sherlock met John's eyes, the air between them electric and thick. He swallowed and averted his gaze, before they gave in and ended up panting and frenetic on the couch, bags still in the car and no food in the kitchen.

"I'm going to just, ah -"

"Yes, god, go get the bags. You need a hand?" John's voice was rough as he turned away. 

"No. You go find the firewood. I have a sneaking suspicion that for all it's appearances of modernity, that fireplace may be the only source of heat in this cottage. I don't see any thermostat or heating controls, do you?" Sherlock realised - now that they were standing more than a few inches apart - that they could actually see their breath in the air. It was probably less than 10 degrees inside. 

"I don't, no. Well spotted, love. I'm off to locate the log pile." John slid the paneled door open and slipped out back. "Well, give a shout if you need help."

Sherlock hummed his assent, and made his way back down to the van. The moon had risen high above the trees now, having shed its autumnal glow. It was bright white and cold, bathing the landscape in an eerie blue light. Low round mountains rose in the north, narrow roads snaking through their valleys. Sherlock could just make out the square white tower of the Cairndow kirk. The only sounds were the scrabble of woodland creatures, the occasional hoot of an owl. Sherlock stood there, mesmerised, until he heard the "Goddammit!" and the unmistakable sound of logs tumbling over each other. He winced and waited a beat.

"Sherlock!" John's voice came strained and flustered around the corner of the house.

"Coming, John!" He grinned and grabbed the bags quickly, throwing them onto the front steps before jogging around to extricate John from whatever he'd gotten himself into now.

***

"How's your ankle?" Sherlock leaned forward and poked at the fire, breaking a charred log in two, and watched as burning chunks cascaded over the grate and into the bed of ashes underneath. The fire roared merrily, filling the small room with heat and light. They'd turned all the lamps off, found a thick down-filled duvet to spread on the floor. John was on the couch with his swollen ankle raised up on the arm, Sherlock curled on the duvet in front of the hearth.

"Fine." John muttered, adjusting the makeshift ice pack Sherlock had rigged from a bag of frozen ravioli they'd packed in the cooler, and one of John's socks. "So stupid. I don't know how I didn't see the bloody pile. Just walked right into it."

Sherlock fought back a laugh and settled back against the couch. John's hand fell into his hair, twirling a lock between his fingers. A warm buzz of electricity skidded down his neck, scalp tingling, numbed only slightly by the rather large amount of scotch he'd drunk thus far. _Where had his glass gone? Oh, there it was_. He fumbled it just slightly, splashing his thumb and the heel of his hand. He raised his arm and licked at it. John's fingers tightened in his hair. 

"I could help you there, gorgeous." John's nose parted the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, lips wet and hot against his skin.

Sherlock bent his head forward, stretching the back of his neck to give John more area to nuzzle. John responded immediately, opening his mouth and licking a wet path from Sherlock's collar up into his hair. Then his lips disappeared, leaving Sherlock's neck cold, and Sherlock heard the clink of ice as John sipped his drink. The lazy massaging of his scalp resumed and John sighed contentedly. 

They'd been teasing each other ever since they'd settled in, a delicious slow burn building between them. When they'd first gotten together, this kind of lingering arousal was impossible to maintain, the frantic hunger they'd repressed for so long had been too powerful to resist. Every kiss had turned into grinding hips and groping hands immediately, getting each other off as quickly as possible in all manner of inappropriate places. It had been months before they could take their time, before they had the patience to spend hours in bed exploring each other. 

Sherlock stretched his legs out towards the fire, and leaned his head farther back into John's touch. He was pleasantly tipsy, drowsy and cosy, limbs heavy. "What shall we do tomorrow, husband?"

"Ah. You _are_ drunk. I suspected as much." John shifted behind him, and draped his left arm down over Sherlock's left shoulder, trailing his fingertips over his tee shirted stomach. 

"I am not." He kissed at the gentle curve of John's bicep, threaded their fingers together. "Perhaps a bit tipsy, but not drunk."

"Nope, you're more than tipsy. You never call me husband unless you're drunk or sick." John tightened his arm around Sherlock's chest. "I love it, you know."

"I know." Sherlock's head was unbearably heavy all of a sudden. His thinking was slowing to a trickle, all the normal complexities of his genius dissipating into the simplicity of a crackling fire and soft lips at his ear. "I love you so terribly much, John."

"I know, sweetheart." John abruptly sat up, and Sherlock swung his head around to see what he was doing. John untied the sock around his ankle and tossed the bag of ravioli towards the kitchen. He slithered off the sofa and snuggled up next to Sherlock, looking up at him with undisguised adoration. The firelight flickered in his dark eyes, accentuated the golden tone of his skin. He raised his tumbler of scotch and smiled. "To us, and a long deserved holiday."

Sherlock clinked his glass against John's, smiled back, and took a long sip that burned down his throat and made his eyes water. John knocked back the rest of his drink in one go, and shook his head briskly. He set his empty glass down and slowly reached up to cup Sherlock's jaw in his hand. His thumb rubbed gently over Sherlock's lower lip, and Sherlock couldn't help but flick his tongue out to catch the tip of it, calloused and rough and wonderfully familiar. He had whole rooms in his mind palace for this, to catalogue the taste of John's skin, of his mouth - how his skin was muskier in the morning, or here in the moist mountain air by the loch, saltier than usual. John moaned softly and Sherlock closed his eyes, dipped his head forward and took John's whole thumb into his mouth.

"Christ." John whispered harshly.

Sherlock smiled around John's thumb, feeling him shiver, his breath quicken. He sucked a little, swirled his tongue around his first knuckle and licked broadly at the second, hollowing his cheeks. John's mouth was suddenly against his throat, sucking and biting, licking up to his jaw and dragging down to his mouth, dislodging his thumb and replacing it with his tongue. Sherlock's arms instinctively circled round John's neck as he reciprocated, tracing the inside of John's mouth with the tip of his tongue. John groaned and turned without breaking the kiss, lowering himself over Sherlock's outstretched legs. 

The warmth from the fire radiated against the backs of Sherlock's hands as he moved them up over John's back while they kissed. He loved John's back. Strong and square, a gentle indentation at his waist, smooth shoulder blades marred only by the gunshot scar that Sherlock loved for no other reason than that it had brought John to him. He traced his fingers over the bumpy outline of it under John's cotton dressing gown, and John shivered against him.

John laid flat palms against Sherlock's chest and melted forward, allowing Sherlock to press them closer together. He sighed deeply enough that it was almost a moan, took Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and bit down just hard enough to send a bolt of desire through Sherlock's stomach and directly to his cock. Sherlock jerked, a whimper escaping him as his fingers dug into the tendons of John's shoulders. John grinned against his lips and arched his back, his hips rocking down against Sherlock's rather bonier ones. 

"I want another drink." He opened his eyes and looked steadily into Sherlock's, lowered his lashes and wiggled his hips. He pouted his lip, and trailed a finger over Sherlock's Adam's apple. "Baby, my ankle hurts."

John drunk always gave Sherlock a deep understanding of where the nickname Three Continents Watson came from. He was devastatingly flirtatious; a lip biting, arse wiggling, eyelash batting menace, brimming over with sexual energy. He could barely keep his hands to himself normally - drunk, it was impossible. Sherlock knew when he was single, he would sleep with virtually anyone within arm's length. And no one within arm's length would have even considered turning him down.

"Your ankle hurts. Really, John?" Sherlock shook his head fondly, knowing he'd only _once_ been able to resist John when they were both drunk, and that was only because he'd been naively oblivious to John's overtures.

John nodded, his eyes nearly impossibly round. "Get me another? Please?"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed in mock annoyance. "What are you going to do for me?"

John furrowed his brow, looking flummoxed. "What?"

"I _said,_ what are you going to do for me, if I get up and fix you another drink?" Sherlock purred, dropping his voice into even deeper octaves, knowing full well the effect of his baritone rumble on John's libido.

" _Oh_." A slow smile crept across John's kiss reddened lips, tongue darting out to sweep across them. "Well, what do you want me to do? I think about anything's on the table, love."

"Very well. When we get home, I would very much like it if you would dismantle and scrub out my chem set. I haven't done it in ages, and it's just gasping for it." Sherlock tried to keep a straight face, but wasn't sure he completely succeeded.

John burst out laughing and slapped playfully at Sherlock's stomach, wrapped his dressing gown ties round his fists and yanked Sherlock forward until their noses were aligned. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but I'll give you points for creativity."

"Alright. If household chores aren't what you had in mind..." Sherlock nudged his nose against John's, dragged his fingernails down the side of John's stubbly neck until his breath caught. He dropped his voice again, molasses and velvet, thick with drink, and murmured against John's panting mouth, "I want you in that kilt. And nothing else."

"Really?" John half laughed, and then stopped at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh. Oh, you really do."

"Very, very much." Sherlock scratched his nails lightly over John's neck and collarbone, pulling the neck of his tee shirt away. He pressed his mouth against that perfect hollow of bone and pulled at the soft skin there with his teeth. John whined softly and twined his fingers up into the back of Sherlock's hair. "For me, John? Please?"

"Yeah, baby, yeah." John breathed out, tugging gently at Sherlock's curls. "I'll feel like an arse, but if you want it, you know I'll do it. Got me wrapped round that finger, after all."

Sherlock's smile was buried in John's warm throat. He pushed at his biceps and John moved off his lap back onto the comforter. "I'll get it for you. You know, _since your ankle hurts_."

John smirked up at him as he bent down to retrieve John's empty glass. "You're a love."

"Mmmm." Sherlock hummed and arched an eyebrow, earning him a swat on the bum as he walked away. 

He went to get the kilt first, folded carefully at the top of John's bag. He'd packed it himself, sure that John would try to leave at at home. He draped it over his arm, the softness of the wool again a surprise. He couldn't stop expecting it to be scratchy and rough, but it was butter soft and rustled as softly as butterfly wings. In the kitchen, he poured John another half glass of Glenlivet, tossed in some ice, and returned to the sitting room. 

John was nude, stretched out on his stomach across the duvet, clothes in a haphazard pile next to the hearth. His body glowed golden brown in the firelight, shadows flickering over the swell of his perfect arse, the curves of taut thighs and muscular calves. He lifted his head and looked at Sherlock, eyes black and half closed. "You sure you still want me to put on the kilt?"

Sherlock's mouth had gone dry. He swallowed and tried to talk past the desire rising in his chest. "Y-yes. More than ever now, I think."

John tilted his head to the side in acquiescence. "Alright then," He jumped up to standing, and held out his hand, "Give it here."

Sherlock swigged at John's scotch, watching as John methodically undid the buckles, opened the kilt and wrapped it around his waist. It fit him like it was made for him. It sat perfectly at the top of his iliac crest, accentuating the sweep of his pelvic bones, the sinewy lines of his hips. The hem just brushed the middle of his knees, making his already beautifully shaped legs look even more like he'd just swaggered off a rugby pitch. The dominant colour in the tartan was a rich forest green, which set off his skin tone and brought out the ginger traces in his blonde hair. 

He fastened the second buckle and held out his hands, spun in a slow circle. "So? What's the verdict?"

"God." Sherlock could barely breathe. He was being choked by his desire, by the spiraling burn of want that was constricting his lungs. "You're gorgeous."

John lifted the corner of his mouth in a wicked grin. His voice was dark and lust drenched, "Yeah? You like your wild highland soldier?"

"God, yes." Sherlock set the glass on the table before he dropped it, his hands were shaking so badly. He stepped forward and ran his hands down John's bare chest, his face scalding hot, breathing through his mouth. He was nothing but desire, shivering pulses of arousal coursing through him, weak with it. He wanted John on top of him, inside him, hands tight around his wrists, that soft wool brushing over his stomach with every thrust of John's cock. 

John swiveled his hips marginally, his stomach muscles undulating under Sherlock's exploring hands. He slid a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down so John's lips were at his ear.  "Shall you be my bonny lassie?"

A whimpering cry shuddered out of him, his fingers digging into John's waist. He ground his hips forward, the hard length of him rubbing against John's stomach. "Yes, yes, please. Oh, god, John, fuck me, please."

"Oh, god, baby. I had no idea - no idea - what this would do to you. Look at you." John brushed his knuckles gently down the side of Sherlock's face, blue eyes filled with tenderness and lust in equal measures. His hands slipped down to Sherlock's chest, and he pushed his dressing gown apart slowly, eyes fixed on Sherlock's. He massaged up Sherlock's stomach, rubbed hard over his arse and up into the curve of his spine, peppered his neck with soft kisses, until Sherlock was boneless and swaying slightly. John passed a feather light touch over his cock and Sherlock gasped, pressed into John's touch, but he pulled his hand away and trailed his fingers over Sherlock's mouth. "So beautiful. Lay down, _leannan_."

"What does -" Oh god, John was speaking Gaelic. Sherlock didn't even know John _could_ speak Gaelic. 

"It means beloved." John whispered, lowering them down to the floor. He pushed Sherlock flat on his back and knelt between his thighs. He pulled his dressing gown down over his arms, watching Sherlock with something close to reverence. "Look at this beautiful creature. All alone in this meadow, no one to keep you safe. Anyone could just come along and take you. That's alright, I'm here now. I've got you."

Sherlock's heart was thumping out of his chest, his whole body trembling as John eased him out of his dressing gown and pushed his shirt up. John leaned over and nuzzled against his bare stomach, lapping at his skin with a hot tongue. His cock jumped, and he fought the animalistic need to touch himself, instead throwing his arms over his head and clutching at the edges of the comforter, the white cotton stretching taut between his sweaty hands. "Oh, John."

"Shhhh. It's alright." John nipped at his belly, ran a hand down his thigh. "No one's ever taken you like this before, I know. No one's ever been inside you, touched you like this. I know. It's alright, I'm going to make you feel so good. You can trust me, lassie."

It should have been silly, it should have felt utterly ridiculous, to have John calling him lassie and pretending he's a virgin, and putting on a horrible Scottish brogue. It should have. But it didn't. Instead, it was like liquid arousal right into his veins, scalding through his bloodstream and short circuiting his higher brain functions. His hips pressed up of their own accord, and John's hand closed around the bone, pushing him back down firmly. 

"John, please, god, please," He was babbling now, he knew it, but he wanted it. Wanted to be taken, to be owned, to have John fill him up, with his cock, with his come. Oh god, how he wanted it. 

"What an eager little lass." John hummed against his chest as he took Sherlock's left nipple into his mouth and sucked. Sherlock cried out, pulses of pleasure tearing down his spine, his hips aching to roll, to grind against John's. John held him down, lapped at the hard flesh in his mouth, scraped his teeth against it not quite hard enough to hurt. His fingers slipped over the edge of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, brushing teasingly through soft black curls and down over his bollocks before circling back up and closing around his leaking prick. Sherlock thrashed and whined as John thumbed at the slit and sucked kisses across Sherlock's chest, "Oh, Christ, so wet for me already. So wet and ready."

Sherlock clawed at John's bare back, digging his nails in until John arched and tensed under him. John's thumb worked a maddeningly slow circle at the leaking head of Sherlock's cock as he pumped him gently and went on licking and sucking at his nipples until they were stiff and swollen, wet with John's saliva, standing out gorgeously against Sherlock's pale skin. John kissed up his throat and put his mouth against the hinge of his jaw. 

"Sweet love. I'm going to take your skirts off now. Don't be scared. I'm going to take such good care of you." John knelt up, his skin glistening with perspiration in the heat of the fire, and slipped Sherlock's pyjamas down over his hips and legs. He ran his hands back up his legs, and pushed at the inside of his thighs. "That's it, _breagha_ \- that means beautiful - spread your legs for me, that's it."

John kissed the soft flesh of Sherlock's flank, and abruptly stood up. "Sorry, sweetheart. Forgot something rather important. Don't move. I'll be back in a tick." 

Sherlock watched the swing of the kilt against the backs of John's knees as he walked out of the sitting room, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching down and giving his prick a few hard pulls. He moaned in relief, the coil of arousal that was tight in his belly loosening just for a moment. He exhaled hard and put his hands above his head, trying to calm his uneven breathing, the staccato of his heartbeat. They'd role played before, but there was always an element of silliness to it, both of them fully aware of the artifice of the scene. This didn't feel the same. This time, Sherlock felt utterly transported. He did feel like a swooning maiden, he did feel like one of the characters in one of Mrs Hudson's ridiculous romance novels _that he absolutely did not ever read_. He was so lost in the scene he could almost feel the grass under his back, smell the windswept meadow. 

John reentered the room, the bottle of lubricant held in one hand. John's larger than average prick tented the front of the kilt rather prominently, and Sherlock suddenly wanted nothing more than to have his head between John's thighs, sucking him off with the kilt bunched thick round John's slim hips. John knelt down beside him, and Sherlock sat up slowly and reached under the kilt, crawling his fingers up John's thigh until he felt hot velvety skin. 

"Oh, love." John's head fell back as he hitched up into Sherlock's hand. The blushing pink and white mottle of arousal had spread all over John's chest and stomach, his neck bright, his cheeks flushed. He swallowed, carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, though his eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s mouth. “You don’t have to.”

"I want to." Sherlock whispered, becoming more inarticulate as his primal needs superseded his intellect. He pushed John back gently by the shoulders until he was laying on the comforter, propped up on his elbows. Sherlock shimmied down until he was flat on his stomach, and then he reached out and parted the fabric at John's pelvis. His cock stood up crudely between the folds of tartan, hard and blood red, foreskin stretched back and glans shining wet. It was the most obscenely gorgeous thing Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock rocked up on his knees, encircled the base with his hand, fingers drifting though cinnamon coloured curls and his thumb rubbing at the soft wrinkled skin under John's cock. John moaned and lifted his hips off the floor entreatingly, and Sherlock sank forward and swallowed him to the root.

"Oh, Christ. Fuck, yeah, just like that. That's perfect, love." John's right leg curled up over Sherlock's shoulder and the kilt fabric fell over the side of Sherlock's face, silky and hot against his ear and the side of his mouth. John reached down and rubbed it against Sherlock's cheek until he was moaning around John's cock, saliva running in rivulets over his fingers. "You highland - _oh fuck_ \- lassies do love your kilts, don't you - _oh Jesus Christ,_ " John panted out, caressing Sherlock's jaw through the wool, "Where did you learn this, you dirty little thing?"

Sherlock played along, looking up at John with wide innocent eyes, and taking his mouth off his cock long enough to murmur, "I didn't learn it anywhere. This is my first time with a prick in my mouth." 

"Oh, fuck, Jesus fuck," John gasped, his hips pumping up into the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth as he leaned on one elbow and twisted his fingers into Sherlock's hair. He didn't push, just rested his hand in Sherlock's curls, feeling the motion as he bobbed his head and sucked him. 

Sherlock pressed his tongue into the vein, swept the tip in circles around the head, pumping his hand along the saliva soaked length of John's prick. He took him deep as John's fingers tightened against his scalp, working the tip of his cock with his throat, and John immediately pulled at his hair. Sherlock swallowed around John's cock, slid his hand down to cradle his bollocks, and John positively keened. 

"Baby, I'm going to - stop now. That's it, _stop_." John tugged at his hair again, and Sherlock pulled off with a debauched slurp, his chin and his nose covered in drool and precome. John looked down at him, chest heaving, and traced the outline of his wet mouth with two fingers. "I almost came right in that pretty mouth."

“I _wanted_ you to.” Sherlock mouthed at the inside of John’s thigh, tonguing into the soft flesh. He scraped lightly with his teeth and John panted harshly, his leg muscles contracting. Sherlock nuzzled along his flank, John’s fingers massaging the base of his skull, pressing into his cervical vertebrae. He found the spot he wanted, the musky damp skin at the juxtaposition of arse and thigh, and pulled it into his mouth, between his teeth, sucking lightly at first.

John’s foot flexed and pushed against Sherlock’s back, his bollocks resting warm and soft against Sherlock’s cheek. “You - _god_ \- you - that _hurts_.”

Sherlock soothed over the reddish mark with his tongue and kissed it. “In a good way or a bad way?”

John let out a shaky laugh. “In a good way. Don’t stop.”

Sherlock took the angry skin between his teeth again, sucking hard enough to break blood vessels, John tensing his curled leg around Sherlock’s shoulder and gasping out bitten off little cries. When Sherlock was satisfied he’d made a mark that would be a lovely purplish maroon in the morning, he lapped at it gently and kissed over it, up over the waist of the kilt and pressed his lips against John’s belly.

“You. God, you. I don’t know if I can keep pretending you’re a virgin if you keep doing things like that, you filthy wonderful thing.” John breathed out, his chest going concave with how hard he was breathing. Sherlock could see his pulse thumping in his neck.

“Well, I’ll have to stop doing things like that, then.” Sherlock lowered his lashes and looked up at John. 

John grinned. “Mmmm. You _really_ love this game.” 

 _“Is_ it a game?” Sherlock languidly tongued at John’s navel, wetting the sparse trail of curls beneath it. “I thought you were quite serious about fucking me right into this floor until I can’t move.”

“Oh, I am.” John’s hand slid around to Sherlock’s jaw and tugged. “Get up here, gorgeous, and I’ll show you how very serious I am.” 

His eyes darkened as he sat up and drew Sherlock's face to his, licked at his lower lip and then kissed him deeply, pressing him back to laying down as he did so. Sherlock shivered as John pulled his rumpled tee shirt up and over his head, running his hands reverentially over Sherlock’s chest. “Christ, you’re beautiful. How has no one taken you before now?”

The words shimmered through Sherlock’s nervous system as soft and electric as John’s warm lips against his skin. He whimpered out a soft _John_ , and John shushed him, cradled his face in his hand, rubbing a calloused thumb over his mouth. Sherlock turned towards his touch, kissing at his palm. 

John mouthed wet kisses over Sherlock’s neck, his stubble beautifully rough under Sherlock’s jaw as the kilt brushed devastatingly lightly against the soft hairs on his thighs. John laid his cheek against Sherlock’s chest as he opened the bottle of lube and tipped it out onto his fingers. Anticipation knotted low in Sherlock’s belly, his entire body quivering as John stroked the insides of his thighs and trailed his slick fingers along the crease of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock let his legs fall open so the outsides of his thighs lay flush against the floor.

“That’s right, my lovely creature. Trust me, I've got you.” John whispered hoarsely, slithering his way down Sherlock’s stomach and kissing the crease of his groin. He gently parted Sherlock’s cheeks with two slicked fingers and pressed them against the tightness of his hole. “Tell me. Tell me how it feels.”

“Oh, John. It feels so good. Please, please,” Sherlock gasped brokenly, his entire body alight with desire.

“Shhhh. I’m going to make you feel amazing, _breagha_.” John’s fingers slid into him as he took the head of Sherlock’s cock between his hot swollen lips. Sherlock arched and cried out, grasping at the strong curve of John’s shoulder as his fingers brushed against Sherlock’s prostate with practiced expertise, exerting gentle but steady pressure against the nub of pure sensation. He pulled off, licked across the slit and circled the glans with the tensed tip of his tongue. "God, I love how you taste, how you feel inside. So soft. Is it good when I touch you there, sweetheart?"

Sherlock smoothed John’s spiky hair, smeared perspiration off his forehead. John was looking up at him through his lashes, the silvery flecks in his cerulean irises illuminated by the firelight. The look in his eyes was intoxicatingly hungry, heavy with desire. His tongue darted out over his already wet lips. 

“It’s so good, John,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible, his chest tight with arousal and affection.

“I’m glad, love. I want it to be so good for you.” John kissed at his thighs, the hollow of his pelvic bone. “I could spend my life kissing you, every part of you.”

John stroked him rhythmic and slow, every sweep of his fingertips sending spirals of pleasure singing down Sherlock’s nerves, stoking the fire deep in his belly. The sweet shivery beginnings of orgasm flooded through his body like a narcotic, making his limbs weak and shaky. “John. I want you, god, I want you, _please_ ,” Sherlock breathed, desperation making his voice catch in his throat.

John enveloped Sherlock’s cock in the sweet intense heat of his mouth, licking hard at the vein on the underside and stroking him relentlessly slowly, keeping Sherlock hovering on the knife’s edge of the orgasm that was sitting tremulous and hot between his legs. Just as Sherlock was sure he couldn’t bear another second of this exquisite torture, John let Sherlock’s prick out of his mouth with a final dirty swipe of his tongue into the slit, and slipped his fingers out, gently caressing his perineum as he did so. Sherlock whined and pressed down into John’s touch, wanting so much more than this deliberate gentle pace. He wanted John to _take_ him.

“You want to come while I’m inside you?” John leaned over Sherlock, his eyes hooded and black, mouth wet and shining in the wavering firelight.

Sherlock nodded, beyond speech. He ran his hands down John’s back, sweaty and hot from the fire, and over the smooth wool until he found the hem and tucked his fingers up inside. He smoothed his hands up the backs up John’s thighs, and up to the firm muscles of his arse, which tensed under his hands. John tipped his head down and kissed Sherlock’s mouth tenderly, parting his lips achingly gently with his tongue. Sherlock kneaded his arse, running his thumbs over the muscled dimples at the small of his back, dipping his fingertips exploringly between his cheeks, and kissed him back with both fond familiarity and throbbing lust. 

John smiled against his mouth, and nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip with his teeth as he knelt up. Silhouetted against the orange glow of the fire, his skin golden and shimmering with sweat, hair standing up in messy spikes, the kilt draped beautifully over his sinewy hips and thighs, he looked exactly like the rugged highland warrior Sherlock had been envisioning since he laid eyes on the kilt. Sherlock watched, rapt, as John filled his palm with lube, parted the pleats of the kilt and stroked his prick. 

“I’m going to take you. Fill you up and ruin you for anyone but me. You want that, my sweet lass?”

“God yes, please. Ruin me. _Take me_.” Sherlock relished the power in those words, watching as John's hips jumped and he squeezed his cock, mouth dropping open.

“Fuck, yes.”

He fell over Sherlock rough and fast, supported by his left arm next to Sherlock’s ear, while he skated his right hand up the back of Sherlock’s bent leg. Sherlock’s legs instinctively closed around John’s waist, heels pressing against the perfect curve of his spine. John smiled as the head of his cock pressed just that much into Sherlock’s loosened entrance, brought his hand up and brushed the back of it against Sherlock’s forehead, pushed his hair from his brow. The warmth in John’s desire blackened irises was aching, the intensity of this moment almost too much for Sherlock to bear. He closed his eyes against the surging emotions in them both, and John leaned down on his elbow, pushing inexorably into Sherlock’s body with a bone deep groan.

“Ah, you beautiful thing, Jesus,” John choked out in a brogue that shouldn’t have sounded natural, but did. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, lips dragging, tasting along the hollow of his collarbone.

He rocked his hips forward and his elbow bit into Sherlock’s shoulder, but he couldn’t seem to mind. Not with John’s sweaty thighs slapping gently against his arse, and John’s cock moving inside him, John’s breath humid on his throat. He slid his hands over John’s chest, over his shoulders, as John licked messily up his jaw and brought their mouths together in a kiss both gentle and fierce. He nipped at Sherlock’s lips, soothed over them with his tongue, rubbed the ends of their noses together. 

"Call me that again.” Sherlock panted against John’s open mouth.

John reached down and hiked Sherlock’s leg higher on his waist, the tartan bunching between his bent knee and John’s overheated skin. He licked at Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and his breath hitched. “Beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock could hardly breathe, John’s body so tight and flush with his own, their chests slipping sweaty against each other as John thrust into him just this side of rough. He said in a desperate sort of hush, “In Gaelic. Like you did before.”

John half laughed, the sound of it trilling down Sherlock’s spine and making his back arch. 

“ _Breagha_.” John said against Sherlock’s throat, and then his ear. “Beautiful. Breagha. You’re so beautiful.”

John kept whispering it, even when he knelt up, kilt in tangled folds across Sherlock’s knees locked around John’s waist. He whispered it as he rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s belly, as he took Sherlock’s stiff and needy prick in his hand and stroked him gently and then harder and then not nearly hard enough. He whispered it as his hips stuttered and he lost his rhythm and nearly came before Sherlock, his head bowed and breath billowing cool over Sherlock’s thighs as he tried to hold it back. 

“Breagha, come for me now, my beautiful love.” John curled his fingers around Sherlock’s hip, his other hand still working Sherlock’s leaking cock, his hand slick with lube and precome.

Sherlock looked up, at the dark outline of John against the weakening firelight, the tilt of his head that meant he was watching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock exhaled hard, and closed his eyes. John pressed the pad of his thumb into the frenulum and moved his hips, his bollocks hot against Sherlock, his cock nudging against his prostate. “Oh John. Please, _harder_ , please.”

“My dirty little lassie.” John murmured, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

John took his hand off Sherlock’s cock and put it on his other hip. He shifted his knees so they were flush against Sherlock’s arse and canted them forward, dragging Sherlock’s body up to meet his. Sherlock gasped and rolled his head, his hips, his whole body twisting with pleasure as John abandoned all restraint and pounded into him with pure carnal need.

“Touch yourself.” John’s fingers dug into his waist, his voice rough and low with arousal.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around his cock and pulled, the tightly wound ache of pleasure that had been thrumming deep within him all night suddenly spiraling through his body with a tornado like ferocity. It coalesced low in his belly, sharp and bright, just waiting for that final push into release. John hoarsely whispered _breagha_ , and Sherlock whined low in his chest, the tension breaking over him as he pulsed hot over his trembling fingers. His hips lifted, arse muscles convulsing tight around John’s prick as he continued to come in thick streams sliding over his belly, waves of sensation coursing down his nerves and crackling electric across his skin.

“Oh, Sherlock, fuck, god, you feel so good, you’re so _tight_ , fuck,” John thrust forward hard, so hard it was on the edge of painful. He stilled for a long moment, his hips kicked forward once more, and Sherlock felt the swell of his cock inside him, the hot wet rush of come filling him up, and then John was whimpering and trembling in the cradle of Sherlock’s legs. He shook and sobbed, fingers clutching at Sherlock's hipbones so hard it hurt. 

“Come down here,” Sherlock tugged at John’s hands, loosening them from his body, and pulled him down to lay against Sherlock’s come spattered chest. John obeyed, sinking weakly against Sherlock, his body heavy and spent. Sherlock laid his hand against John’s neck, pressed his sticky thumb into the place where John's heartbeat was still galloping, and let himself revel in the aftershocks, the shivers of pleasure still twitching down his muscles, the warm floaty sensation in his limbs, the heaviness of his eyelids. 

John sighed and nuzzled at Sherlock’s chest, curled his arms up around Sherlock’s sides and wiggled his hips so their pelvis bones were aligned more comfortably. “I think we ruined the kilt.” He mumbled, nearly incomprehensible with his lips mashed against Sherlock’s sternum. 

“They -” Sherlock started, and then his voice caught in a throat raw and dry. He cleared his throat and tried again. “They have dry cleaners in Scotland, do they not?”

John’s shoulders shook with laughter, “I am not taking this to a dry cleaner. Jesus fucking Christ. I would be mortified. It’s absolutely covered in come and lube.”

Sherlock rubbed gently at the back of John’s sweat slick neck and hummed. “I never do understand your reticence about other people knowing about our sex life. Because really, John, I think it’s rather something to be proud of.”

John laughed again, and turned his head to kiss Sherlock’s chest. He ran his hand down lingeringly over Sherlock’s ribs, rubbed his thumb in circles over his iliac crest and then raised his hand and smacked Sherlock’s hip hard enough to sting pleasantly. “God, you’re right about that, you dirty, dirty creature. That was incredible.”

“It _always_ is.”

“Yeah, but that was especially incredible.”

“It was the kilt.” Sherlock murmured, only half joking. "I never knew..."

"Knew what?"

"The Gaelic. I never...where did you learn Gaelic?"

John laughed softly. "Aunt Aileen taught us a bit. I really only knew a few words. I couldn't string a sentence together to save my life. You liked it, though?"

"It was...beautiful, honestly."

" _You're_ beautiful." 

John planted an affectionate kiss to Sherlock’s clavicle and rolled off him, yawning and grinning, rubbing his hands over his sticky belly and looking very much more like a satisfied cat than a conquering highland warrior.

“Well, my bonny lassie,” John winked at him, and Sherlock’s cheeks burned with pleasure, “I’m for the shower, and then bed. Shall we do some tramping about in the woods tomorrow?”

“Yes, that sounds perfect. Need a hand in the shower? You know, _since your ankle hurts_.” Sherlock rolled to his side and pressed his mouth to John’s bicep. “You might fall without the proper assistance.”

John threw his head back and guffawed. Sherlock loved how he was after sex, so easy to laugh, so relaxed and unburdened. He looked ten years younger, and so happy it made Sherlock’s heart constrict. 

“Yeah, come on, then,” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled them both up to standing. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and looked up at him, eyes shining. “I love you so much. I’m glad we came here. I’m really looking forward to this - some time, just for us, away from all the shit we have to do at home.”

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock pressed a hard kiss to the middle of John’s brow and hoped that the rest of their time here would be like this. Something uncomfortable still stirred at the back of his mind, the idea of one little hole in a dam allowing the whole bloody thing to burst and destroy everything in it’s path.

John tilted his head and looked at him questioningly. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fantastic.” Sherlock smiled and spun John around, pointed him in the direction of the loo. “Go. Showers.”  

Sherlock swallowed down the anxiety and followed John to the shower, watching his arse twitch invitingly under the rumpled tartan. Filthy and stained or not, John Waston had not seen the last of that kilt. Sherlock would see to that.

***

The next morning dawned as foggy and overcast as the day before, chilly and damp. John made strong coffee, toast and bacon, and they took their spartan breakfast out onto the tiny concrete stoop out front. In the daylight, Sherlock got a proper view of their surroundings. Thick forest behind them, mostly pine trees, towering and ancient. The A815 wound round the edge of the property like a lazy snake, and beyond that were fields and sparse shrubbery, then more pine forest in the distance.

“Cairndow proper is that way,” John said through a mouthful of toast. He pointed northwest, toward where Sherlock had spotted the top of the kirk last night, though it was now made invisible by thick fog. “It’s really tiny. Like a few inns and the kirk and maybe like a few hundred houses. They don’t even have a school anymore. I remember it closing when Harry and I were kids.”

“And where’s Aunt Aileen’s famous cottage?” Sherlock smiled at John, who looked well scrubbed and quite the country bloke this morning, his face pink above the thickening ginger scruff, his hair messy from sleep, wearing a thick dark blue cable jumper and frayed jeans, a pair of chestnut brown oiled leather hiking boots that Sherlock had bought him a few birthdays ago and he’d never had any use for in London. 

“Same direction. A bit north of the village itself. Shall we go there today? Maybe a nine kilometre walk.” John brushed toast crumbs from his jeans and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug.

“I’m up for it if you are.” 

“Absolutely.” John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and sipped his coffee, “Yeah, I’m up for it.”

John was smiling, but Sherlock didn’t miss the touch of melancholy in his eyes as he turned and looked toward the loch and the village. Sherlock pressed his palm into the small of John’s back, and John leaned into him. They finished their coffee in silence, watching a cold autumn sun slowly burn the fog away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drumchapel is based on a real place, Ardkinglas Estate, which is actually on the banks of Loch Fyne in Cairndow. But since it's a real house, with a real family that lives there, I thought it diplomatic to change the names and such.

The sun was barely a pinpoint of weak light in the cream coloured sky as John and Sherlock picked their way through the dense ground cover in the forests surrounding the southwestern outskirts of Cairndow. The cold damp air seemed capable of penetrating skin and bone. Sherlock was shivering hard, despite their fast pace and the heavy duffel coat John had forced him to wear. He was feeling quite the pampered city weakling, longing only for a warm cab and a steaming takeaway cup cradled between his palms.

John, conversely, seemed to be growing heartier with every step. He’d shed his cable jumper at least an hour previous, and it was now tied around his waist, flapping gently against the backs of his knees as he skipped from root to rock. His cheeks glowed with exertion and there was an alert calm in those seawater blue eyes that Sherlock rarely glimpsed. Despite his protestations back at Baker Street that he’d never make it an afternoon without city conveniences, he seemed entirely at home here, amongst the tall pines, surrounded by the scent of moist earth and composting leaves. He looked the part of the hale country bloke out for a survey of his estate. All he needed was a dog gamboling round his feet and a rifle over his shoulder. 

Seeing John this way, so different than Sherlock had ever known him, made Sherlock’s chest ache with a sort of ambiguous sadness. There were so many pieces of John he had yet to discover, so many rooms within him that were still closed off, even after all their years together. He ached to be let in, to touch and lay claim to every single memory and emotion that made up John Watson. He wanted to stand in those closed rooms, absorb their smells and their sounds, watch the dust filtering down through his fingers, breathe him in. He wanted to understand John at a molecular level. 

“Ah. I knew we were close.” John stopped so abruptly that Sherlock walked right into him.

“Sorry. Close to what?”

“S’okay.” John turned to him with a wide smile, eyes bright indigo in the wan sunlight. He pointed over a small ridge ahead of them, which tumbled down into a shallow dale. “That’s Drumchapel Estate. Beautiful gardens, big old manor house. Some ruins of older buildings. Harry and I used hike the trails when we were kids. They wind all round Loch Fyne and up into the mountains. I _thought_ we were going the right way, but I wasn’t certain.”

Sherlock peered over John’s shoulder and through branches thick with pine cones. Loch Fyne lay still and grey in the crease of the valley below, and perched on the edge of the water was a sprawling medieval revival manor, all grey stone and paneled windows. It reminded Sherlock of a castle in a children’s book - almost too picturesque. Too perfect. 

The grin slipped off of John’s face as he gazed down at the house, and his eyes filled with a thoughtful melancholy. He scratched unconsciously at the stubble under his jaw, licked at his wind reddened lips. Sherlock inched forward, possessed with the need to touch him, to make that creeping sadness in his eyes retreat. John instinctively leaned back as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s waist. 

He set his chin atop John’s head and tightened his embrace. John hummed contentedly and sank more heavily against Sherlock, brought his hands up to hold Sherlock’s forearms. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. Instead he closed his eyes and allowed himself to bask in the warmth of John’s body against his own, the closeness between them. 

John swiveled suddenly in Sherlock’s arms, brushing his nose up against his cold throat. “Well, come on then, gorgeous. Race you.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise as John ducked out from under his hold.

“Race you!” John repeated, tossing Sherlock a mischievous grin as he broke into a loose run, his small frame bounding deftly over top of the underbrush. 

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Sherlock shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh or sigh at yet another abrupt change in John’s already mercurial moods. He could barely keep up since the kilt had come - John was darkly morose one moment and possessed with wild-eyed glee the next. 

Sherlock watched his blonde head bobbing along between the trees, and wondered what on earth he’d unleashed by insisting that they come here. Scotland was associated with happy memories for John, but also with his father and the unhappy childhood John rarely discussed or even allowed himself to think about. He’d said more than once that his life before Sherlock didn’t even feel like his own, that it hardly even felt real. Sherlock knew John well enough to understand that was only partially the truth. 

He also knew, from his own experiences, that long repressed emotions were unpredictable once they rose to the surface. They could make a person do things he wouldn’t normally do - such as help plan a wedding that was actually breaking his heart in pieces, or make unforgivable mistakes in deductions that led to tragic outcomes - Sherlock shook his head to break that train of thought, and realised he was still standing stock still whilst John had made his way halfway down the hill. 

“Come _on,_ Sherlock!” John called without turning, waving an arm at Sherlock as he descended over the ridge and disappeared.

There was nothing to do but follow. 

Sherlock broke into a run, his thighs beginning to ache as he attempted to catch up with John, who seemed possessed of some kind of superhuman speed, racing and tripping his way down the overgrown hillside, his arms held out on either side of him for balance. Sherlock’s toes caught under a snarl of tangled vines, making him stumble and curse. He slid on a muddy patch and nearly fell, bashed his shin on a rock trying to steady himself. When he finally caught up with John at the bottom, he was panting and bruised and irritated as hell. John’s eyes flashed merrily at him as Sherlock gulped air and tried to get his breath back. 

“You’ve - you’ve no right to be so quick -” Sherlock gasped, half bent over and bracing his hands against his knees. “Your legs are half as long as mine.”

“Ah, you’re just out of shape. You’ve always been a lazy thing.” John clapped him soundly on the back, but allowed his fingers to linger fondly, tracing a slow line up between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Then he flopped back against the grass and folded his arms behind him, looking up into the wide white sky. “When you’ve recovered, we’ll cross over that little stream there and walk to the house. I’d love to get a look at the place after all these years.”

“I thought -” Sherlock took a heaving breath and straightened up, trying to work out the cramp in his side. “I thought we were going to Aunt Aileen’s old cottage today.”

“Aye, we were, my bonny boy,” John slipped back into that Scottish brogue that had absolutely no right to be as sexy as it was. He grinned again and bit his lip, then said teasingly in his normal accent, “But that’s at least six kilometres from here. I honestly don’t know if you can make it.”

“I absolutely _can_ make it, John.” Sherlock objected, and kicked at John’s booted foot indignantly. “I’ve no trouble keeping up with you at home.”

John raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Well, it’s different climbing through the woods than running round on nice flat paved London streets. You’re red as a beetroot.”

Sherlock glared at him.

John laughed again, the melancholy thankfully dissipated from those changeable eyes. He jumped up from where he’d been laying and brushed dried grass from the backs of his jeans. “Alright. If you think you’re up for the challenge. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Let’s get going, then.”

John ruffled Sherlock’s hair as he passed, easy and affectionate. Sherlock watched him as he set off, silhouetted against the low mountains rising purple across the loch. _He’s so small_ , Sherlock thought wonderingly, as he usually did when seeing John at a distance. His size was so incongruous with his presence, with his long, loping gait and those broad shoulders upon which so much weight and sadness had always sat. Sherlock wanted nothing more in the world than to take it all away, to give John every happiness he’d always deserved and rarely received. 

He hurried to catch up, falling in step beside John and threading their fingers together as they crossed the dew-slippery grass. John’s palm was warm and smooth against his own icy one. Sherlock tightened his grip, just a quick squeeze of flesh and bone, their knuckles bumping. John’s eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock’s and he smiled knowingly. 

“You’re becoming a sentimental old sod, you know that? This place is getting to you, too, I think. Something about Scotland...I don’t know. It always brings out - something - in people. Or in me, anyway. I had forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

“How much I love it here.”

“Shall we tell Mrs Hudson to send us our belongings and let out 221b?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow, not entirely sure he was joking.

“Oh, stop taking the piss.”

“Not.”

“You’d better be. I’d go fucking mad up here all the time, and I can’t even imagine what you would do. Probably start conducting horrific experiments on innocent fuzzy little woodland creatures to keep yourself busy.”

“Too much cleanup. Now insects, though...” 

John laughed loudly, throwing his head back and guffawing in that way that still made Sherlock’s stomach do flips. Sherlock had a sudden overpowering urge to pick him up in both arms and kiss him breathless. 

But John had already turned toward the small but rushing stream they were about to cross. He stepped carefully onto a moss covered stone. “Careful, these are slippery as hell.”

Sherlock nodded and followed John across the water, assiduously treading in his footsteps, but still slipping several times on the slick green stones. By the time they were on dry land again, scarcely a minute later, the cuffs of Sherlock’s trousers were sodden and cold and there was a conspicuous dampness round the tops of his socks. 

John took one look at Sherlock’s frowning face as he stared down at his wet trousers and burst out laughing. 

“Oh, love. You’re really not at all cut out for this, are you?”

“Shut up.” Sherlock said mildly, his attention suddenly elsewhere. “Do you hear that, John?”

John tilted his head to the side, eyes skyward. His mouth ticked to the side in a half smile as he listened. “Jesus Christ. Even when we’re on bloody holiday.”

“Can we?” Sherlock knew he sounded like a wheedling child, trying to get an extra sweet out of an indulgent parent. 

“All these years, and I still don’t excite you as much as a goddamned police cruiser.”

“Now you know that’s not at all true.”

John looked skyward, jutted out his lower lip as though he were thinking hard. “We’ve never tried it in a police car. I’m up for a go if you are.”

“ _John_.”

“Yeah, alright, come on. Must know you’re here - sent a welcoming party.” John shook his head, looking thoroughly exasperated, though Sherlock knew he wasn’t in the least. “I think they’re heading towards the house.”

“Indeed.”

“You realise it’s probably a disgruntled tourist or a deer poacher or something terrifically mundane? I know that genius brain is clicking through brilliantly violent and bloody scenarios already, but it’s likely nothing at all interesting.”

“Spoilsport.” Sherlock shot John a teasing half smile and arched his right eyebrow. 

John bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Flirt.”

Sherlock shrugged, exhilarated not only by the bracing Scottish air and the promise of a crime to solve, but by the burning expression in John’s eyes and the memory of last night surging unbidden through his mind’s eye. John’s sweaty hair in the firelight, the muscles in his forearms undulating as his hands moulded bruises into Sherlock’s hips. 

Flirting and sex and crime scenes and murder were so intertwined for them both. They’d fallen in love wearing forensic coveralls and nitrile gloves, bent over bloody corpses. Their first kiss was up against a soot covered brick wall whilst on a stakeout. _You get off on this._

“Should have known I couldn’t keep Sherlock Holmes away from a lovely murder, even when we’re on our first proper holiday as husbands.” John turned and headed toward the house, striding purposefully, hands swinging in loose fists at his sides.

“I thought you said it was probably an overwrought tourist.” Sherlock jogged ahead of John, able to make out the lights of at least three police cars winding up the long drive to the manor house as they ascended the swell of the stream bank. 

“Yeah, well. That’s looking less likely by the second.” John’s mouth set into a tight line, his eyes tracking the mortuary van that was pulling up to park against a hedgerow of rose bushes, breaking several branches in the process. 

“Well, well. Shall we?” Sherlock went to pop the collar of his Belstaff, and realised with dismay he was wearing a huge floppy green duffel with a hood. 

“After you.” John gestured for Sherlock to go ahead of him, as was their custom on cases. Sherlock took front and centre, and John stood behind him, steadying and dependable and generally quiet. 

They reached the house just as the policemen were slamming their car doors shut, the radios on their shoulders humming with disembodied voices in the chill morning air. The driver of the mortuary van stepped out and stretched his back, looking supremely bored. A young ginger haired cop turned instinctively toward John and Sherlock as they came up behind the haphazard collection of vehicles. He strode toward them. No name badge on his uniform, but two pin holes where one was normally affixed. No watch either, but the skin round his wrist was pale. In a rush this morning, started his day off badly. 

“You two the ones who phoned us?” He sounded twelve years old. 

“No, sir. Just up from London on holiday.” John had already assumed that voice he put on when he was trying to blend in, pretend he was just a normal bloke.

Ginger’s eyebrow lifted. “Ah.” His gaze flicked down to the wedding bands on their fingers. “Taking the wives for a nice country break?”

John shook his head, and Sherlock could see the ripple of tension travel up the back of his neck. He was always on alert, always ready to be offended on their behalf. He loathed the assumptions people made, and he’d gotten into more than one verbal altercation with complete strangers.

Sherlock broke in before John could reply. “No, _we’re_ married. To each other.”

“Oh.” Ginger sniffed, but it was a poor cover for the disapproving curl of his lip. He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t have guessed that. You don’t look - well. Anyway. I’ll need to get your contact information, _sirs_. Just stay put.”

“Actually,” Sherlock began, all too aware of John’s fist clenching tightly beside him, and trying to redirect this conversation into something _not_ disastrous, “We work for Scotland Yard.”

“Do you now? Am I supposed to be impressed about that?” Ginger sneered.

“What I mean to say is that we’ve not witnessed anything.” Sherlock said smoothly, changing tactics. 

“Brilliant. Still need your contact information.” Ginger’s radio crackled to life, the voice indecipherable to Sherlock. He held up one finger to them as he listened.

John turned and hissed out the side of his mouth, “They’re not going to let us help, you know.”

“Shhhh.” Sherlock whispered back, putting on his most disarming smile and clasping his wrists behind his back. 

“We’re just interlopers to them, Sherlock. City boys who don’t belong here - and _poofs_ to boot. _Homophobic arsehole piece of shit._ ” John growled under his breath, his voice buzzing with irritation. 

Sherlock shot him a quieting stare, and John’s eyes widened, his upper lip curling. He was furious. Ten minutes previous, he’d been grinning and flirting with Sherlock, all boyish laughter and looking up at clouds, and now this. Sherlock sighed to himself. He always found a way to cock things up for John, even when he was the most well-intentioned. And this wasn’t well-intentioned - this was selfish. Doing what he always did - sticking his nose in, unable to resist his own insatiable curiosity. Too damn late now.

Ginger ground his jaw and glared at them, as though whatever he’d heard through the radio was their fault. “I’m needed inside - but you two don’t move, alright?”

“We could just come inside with you. That way we wouldn’t have the opportunity to scamper.” 

Ginger looked him up and down briefly, considering. “Yeah, alright. But you’ll stay well out of the way - you’re not in London and I don’t give a sheep’s tit what you do at Scotland Yard, yeah?”

“Yessir.” Sherlock smiled triumphantly down at John as Ginger turned away.

John shook his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Clever bastard.”

Confusing emotions tumbled through Sherlock at John’s sad eyes and smiling mouth, all mixed up with his pride at having gotten them in the house. He wanted so many things at once, he could barely remember to make his feet move to follow Ginger up the winding drive and into the house. _Focus, Sherlock_. 

The rose bushes gave way to snow white rhododendrons as they closed in on the house itself, not nearly as imposing up close as it had seemed at a distance. Quite the opposite, actually. It seemed on a smaller scale, weathered stones and worn paint, red velvet curtains at the windows - it felt like a home. 

“John, does the family - is this _just_ a museum?” 

“Not last time I was here. It’s a family home, been owned by a MacDougal since, god I don’t even know when. Sixteenth century or so, I’d guess.” John scratched at his eyebrow and grimaced as they entered the house. “Smells like blood.”

“It does indeed, doctor.” Sherlock craned his neck, trying to peer into one of the rooms off the entry hall.

The interior of the house was shabbier than what one would normally expect of a massive country manor house. The handwoven wool carpets on the floors were threadbare, chipping paint around every door handle, and a large water stain on the ceiling looked as though it was the product of slow and steady seepage. A leak that should have been fixed years ago, and never had been. The smells lurking under the overpowering iron tang of blood reminded Sherlock viscerally of both his mother and Mrs Hudson - floral perfume worn only by ladies of a certain age, some kind of heavy stew with beef stock and plenty of carrots, the rotten egg odor of silver polish. 

“Don’t move, you got it?” Ginger whirled on them, finger raised. “Oi, Lightburn. I’m needed in the back - take these two _lovely_ gentlemen’s contact information, if you’d be so kind. They walked up on scene as we were pulling in.”

A short stout female officer ambled over, her posture and demeanor the polar opposite of Ginger’s. She wore a navy pants suit, well pressed, but many times hemmed and repaired. Her thick dark hair was cut into a soft bob, and her easy smile lit up what could otherwise have been a plain face. She held out her hand. 

“DS Cora Lightburn.” She turned to Ginger. “Go on. I’ve got them.”

Ginger nodded tightly and hurried down the corridor. A door Sherlock couldn’t see creaked open and slammed shut, a din of strained voices escaping briefly into the quiet hall. The medics they’d seen pull up earlier blurred past the window to Sherlock’s left, head round to what was likely the kitchen entrance. _Scattered. Messy. They’re not used to this._

“I hope Adrian didn’t give you lads too much trouble. He’s new, see. Feels like he’s got to prove himself or some such shite. He’s alright, really. Just comes off as a bit of a prick at first.” She gave them a conspiratorial wink and pulled a tattered crimson notebook from her pocket. 

“I’ve got one of those.” John grinned at her and Sherlock felt his heart lift. 

“Oh yeah? What do you use it for?”

“Same thing you do, I expect. Clues. Addresses. Weird shit you know you should remember but you’ll forget in twenty minutes.” 

“Clues? For….” She looked at him questioningly.

“Oh, we’re a bit amateur sleuths ourselves. I mean, not that _you’re_ an amateur. We are though - well, Sherlock is. I guess I rather hang around and get in the way, right, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, in the way.” Sherlock tried to make his laugh sound casual. John honestly was so much better at this sort of game playing than he was. He flirted, bantered, used those baby blues to his advantage, eased his way in. 

Sherlock allowed himself to drift away from the inanity of the conversation, knowing John was doing exactly what John always did - jumping in at precisely the right moment with some nugget of genius that Sherlock would never have come up with. He looked into the doorway to their left, what seemed to be a music room. A black baby grand piano sat by the window, next to a neatly stacked mountain of sheet music and an empty stand with half a silver flute resting in it. Everything was coated in a very thin layer of dust, but there were fresh flowers in a vase in the window and the carpet had been freshly hoovered - a room tidied, but not used. 

He tuned back into what DS Lightburn and John were discussing.

“...he’s always telling me to just use my phone, get one of those you write on with the little stylus, but…” John jerked a thumb at Sherlock, the expression on his face far too open and friendly to be real. 

Sherlock couldn’t believe there’d been a time he thought John was a bad liar. 

“It’s just _not the same_!” They both finished together, erupting in a chorus of shared laughter.

“Ah, glad I’m not the only Luddite around.” Lightburn smiled at John again, pen poised to write. “Now I do have to take down your information. But it’s only a formality, I’m sure we’ll never need to bother you.”

“Of course.” John smiled back - absolutely oozing boyish charm. The moment she looked down, his eyes slid over to meet Sherlock’s, his expression shifting into a cocky lopsided smirk. 

Nothing was sexier than a self satisfied John Watson. Sherlock wanted to pin him to nearest flat surface and lick that expression right off his face. He cleared his throat, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked away.

“Name and address.”

“Uh, Dr. John Watson. Just me, or - or him, too?” John tilted his head, eyes round and big. A goddamned _puppy_. And playing dumb as brilliantly as only he could. 

“Just you. I’ll get his from him.” Her smile was kind, patient, as though John were about eight years old and had bubble gum stuck in his hair. 

“Right. So, John Watson, um, address is 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE.”

Sherlock was beginning to get antsy. He wanted down that corridor. He wanted in the room where all the cops had gone. He knew John was working her, that he had to be patient, but his nerves were tingling. He shivered. 

“You alright?” Lightburn asked, still scratching their address in her notepad.

“Yes, fine. We’ve been hiking all morning, I think I have a bit of a chill.” Sherlock rubbed his arms as though he was warming himself and tried not to smile when he saw John’s mouth tick up amusedly.

“Cold out there today, certainly compared to London. Alright, now what’s your information, sir?” She was much more businesslike with Sherlock, but of course he’d got none of that affability that John was able to turn on like a tap.

“Sherlock Holmes, same address as Dr. Watson.” 

She looked between them. “Flatmates?”

“Everything mates.” John held up his left hand and wiggled his ring finger casually, though Sherlock could see the tightness in his jaw. 

“Lovely.” Lightburn smiled, and it was genuine, reaching into her eyes. “On your honeymoon?”

“Ah, no, we’re way past that part.” John’s stance relaxed, his shoulders loosening, the tension in his neck easing. “We’re already to the ignore-each-other-and-watch-telly-all-night part.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” She smiled again, and shut her notebook with a snap. “As far as I’m concerned, you lads are free to go. Go enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

John leaned forward, looked round as though to make sure no one could hear him, and whispered, “Can you tell us what happened? Just before we go? I’m just, you know...curious.”

“Well…” She hesitated, and glanced behind her. Seeing the corridor empty, she shrugged and beckoned John closer. “I’m not really supposed to, but.”

John pulled his fingers across his mouth like a zipper. “Lips are sealed, promise.”

“Alright then.” She drew in a deep breath. “It’s a _murder_.”

She said it with all the flourish as if she’d just announced the arrival of the Queen, rearing back dramatically and planting her hands on her hips. Sherlock had to hold in the scoffing laugh that was threatening. _Yes, we already sorted that part out, thank you._

Before either of them could respond, she said breathlessly, “First murder here in, god I don’t even know how long. Since the fifties, I think. It’s exciting. I mean, it’s terrible, but... _exciting_. I don’t think half of us know what to do, honestly.”

John swallowed, looked to Sherlock for final approval. Sherlock inclined his head nearly imperceptibly, answering the unvoiced question, and John’s eyes flicked immediately back to Lightburn. 

“We could, you know. Take a look. Being from London, and all. He’s worked with Scotland Yard a few times.” 

_Oh, John really was brilliant._

Lightburn pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes at John. “You having me on?”

“No, honestly.” John said earnestly, “Show her the ID badge from the Yard, love.”

_Laying it on a bit thick, now, John._

But Sherlock obediently dug out his wallet from the depths of a giant duffel coat pocket and produced his badge. Lightburn’s face looked at first surprised, and then impressed. 

“Well. You know what? I’m not _really_ in charge, but I know we could use a bit of help.” She chewed her lip nervously. “You’ve dealt with corpses before?”

John shrugged. “Oh, once or twice. Yeah.”

“And you know about crime scenes? You can’t touch anything. Not one thing. Not until forensics is done.” 

“We know.” Even John slipped a little there, half a laugh escaping into his voice before he could stop it. 

“There’s not really precedent for this, but then - there’s not precedent for any of this. Yeah, alright. I’ll have to get you booties for your shoes, and you’ll have to shove off the minute anyone objects, but - Scotland Yard. That’s. Impressive.” She turned down the corridor. “Come on then.”

They fell in step together behind her, and Sherlock allowed himself a quick squeeze of John’s forearm. John grinned in response, his eyes alight with the same kind of fervor that overtook Sherlock on cases. He loved this as much as Sherlock did.

“So, who is it? The victim, I mean?” 

Lightburn half turned her head over her shoulder to answer, but kept walking. “It’s sad, really. Local girl, grew up here in Cairndow. She’d been away in Glasgow for, oh, about twenty years. Just came back a few months ago to take over her dad’s business after he passed.”

“That’s terrible.” John murmured softly, no longer play acting. “What was her name?”

“Rachael. Rachael Finley.” Lightburn stopped at the closed door, her hand on the knob. “You ready?”

But something was wrong. John had stopped, a metre behind them. Sherlock spun to look at him, and his face was ashen, fists curled tightly at his thighs.

“John. John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock closed the gap between them and took his hand, heedless of who was around them. 

John opened his mouth several times before he seemed able to find words. His hand in Sherlock’s was limp. “Rachael. I knew her. We - she lived near my aunt. Harry and I, we played with her when we were kids, Sherlock. We _played_ together.”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock wanted to kiss him, wrap his arms around him and take him home. But there wasn’t going to be any time or opportunity for that. 

Lightburn took her hand off the knob and stepped closer to them, her crimson notebook back in her hand. All her warm friendliness had evaporated, replaced by a crisp authority as she flipped her notebook open to a blank page. “Alright, you two. I think you’d better tell me a bit more about what you’re doing in Cairndow.”


End file.
